


Sleep, My Old Friend

by draca (wyvernwolf)



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernwolf/pseuds/draca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insomia is defined as difficulty initiating or maintaining sleep, or both, despite adequate opportunity and time to sleep, leading to impaired daytime functioning. Sam has intimate knowledge of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep, My Old Friend

He was tired, so bloody tired. His eyes were dry and felt like they'd been scoured with sand, his skin felt like it had been stretched tight over his body and it was it was taking him a lot more effort than usual to do something as simple as stand up. He could also confidently attest that the term bone deep ache wasn't something someone came up with as an exaggeration.

He needed sleep. He _wanted_ sleep. He yearned for the deep dark oblivion that came from slipping into a dreamless, restful sleep, but he just didn't seem able to. His heavy eyelids would slowly slip closed and his awareness would dance on the edges of sleep but inevitably, his eyes would pop open and his brain would sluggishly start working again; or at least try to.

He had reached the point where he would happily sell his soul to be able to get into his bed in the evenings and just drift off and wake the next morning refreshed and ready to face the demands of being a police officer in 1973.

Instead he'd get into bed and just lie there. Shifting around trying to find a comfortable spot, feeling the lure of sleep tugging at, but not quite catching, him.

Sometimes he'd just curl up on his cot and pull the blankets over his head. Under the dark cover they provided, sounds were muffled and it was almost peaceful and he could pretend that he was falling asleep, that he would be able to close his eyes and drift away and when he opened them it would be tomorrow and he wouldn't feel so damned tired. The thought would cross his mind that maybe if he hid for long enough it would actually happen. But then, knowing his luck, it probably wouldn't and he'd be awake the whole fucking night and have to drag his sorry carcass into work the next day to the pointed comments from Ray fucking Carling about how he looked like shit and that maybe he needed a good shag from one of the boys on Canal Street. _Fuck_. Having to deal with Ray Carling on a good day was enough to try his patience but lately it was taking all the energy he had left to not succumb to the urge to lunge at the other man and wrap his hands around his throat and throttle the life out of him.

He was pretty sure it was insomnia but he didn't know _why_ he had it. It had just crept up on him so slowly that he hadn't noticed until one day he'd realised that he was spending longer amounts of his nights lying awake waiting for the sky to lighten with the rising sun. He'd always had trouble sleeping but never like this.

When he'd become aware of the situation, he'd set about remedying it. He'd started by ensuring that his curtains didn't let in any stray bits of light from the street and placed a rolled-up towel under the door to block any light and sound. When that hadn't worked, he'd splurged and bought himself a new pillow and sheets, a better blanket and even a new mattress, reasoning that the expenses made sense if they helped him get some much need rest.

None of these steps had remedied the situation. Instead, he'd just been more comfortable as he'd spent his nights staring at the water stained ceiling above his bed.

After a few days of this, he'd gone and bought a few more pillows. Because while his bed was now inviting and comfortable, it was a bit empty and made him feel lonely so he surrounded himself with the extra pillows and pretended that he wasn't alone.

It hadn't helped and his frustration with the situation was climbing. He was supposed to be in a coma, dammit. How could he be in a coma and not be able to sleep?

He'd briefly considered the option of sleeping pills but had discarded the idea almost immediately. It would entail going to see a doctor, and in no way was he going to do that voluntarily. Not when there was the slightest chance that in his exhausted state of mind he might let something slip about 2006. They'd have him incarcerated in the local asylum faster than he could blink. He didn't even know if insomnia even a recognised medical issue in this time.

As a final resort, he'd tried the old method of drinking himself into a stupor. After all, it seemed to work for Gene. But whilst it did render him unconscious, it was in no way a restful sleep. He'd woken up even more tired and with a hangover to boot so that idea had been chucked by the wayside too.

It had been over a month now. More than thirty days since he'd been able to slip into bed, stretch out, close his eyes and have a long restful sleep. The only sleep he'd been getting had been short naps and he was feeling wrung out and dead on his feet.

And it was affecting his work.

Even the simple act of blinking was almost too much, and thinking was starting to become a problem as his head felt like it was going to explode at any minute. He would sit and stare at the reports in front of him, reading the same line over and over without actually understanding what he was reading.

He was thankful that because most of the department seemed to function at half speed his recent lack of enthusiasm would hardly have registered.

Or so he thought.

There was one person who had noticed Sam's growing lack of attention. And that someone had watched through the blinds of his office with growing concern as Sam had stumbled in each morning, progressively resembling the walking undead with every passing day. The deep black bags under his eyes, unshaven jaw and more pronounced lines in his face had been noted as well as the crumpled and creased clothing. Sam looked nothing like the usual neat and tidy, with corners so sharp they would cut you, DI that usually waltzed into the station, annoying the shit out of everyone else who were nursing hangovers. Nowadays he fit right in with the rest of them. And that didn't sit well with Gene at all.

**

Today had been a particularly bad day. The continued lack of proper rest had left Sam feeling like a rubberband stretched tight and it had taken a throwaway comment from Gene for the rubberband to snap and Sam to completely lose it. The result had been a truly horrific train wreck of a scene that had Gene staring at him in fascinated fury and sent the rest of CID scurrying for cover as they braced themselves for Gene's retaliation... which hadn't come. Gene had only given Sam a piercing look before sweeping out of the room leaving behind the palpable weight of his displeasure.

He hadn't been seen since.

If that hadn't been enough, Sam had also managed to alienate Annie and half the Women's Department with his foul temper and nearly reduced Chris to tears when the DC had only been asking him for help.

Unable to face the accusing glares and hostile treatment from everyone, Sam had hidden himself in the Collater's Den, tensing each time footsteps had passed the door and waiting for Gene to come in and beat him to a pulp. But the man hadn't shown. By the end of the day, Sam had felt like there'd been a team of tiny little dwarfs beating a steady tattoo in his brain but still he waited until he was positive the building had cleared for the night before he crept out and headed home, nursing a headache and feeling very sorry for himself.

Now he was stretched out on his bed, wallowing in his self pity and guilt and trying his damned best to not think about the fiasco at the station and the hurt look that had flashed briefly over Gene's face when Sam had launched into his diatribe. He rubbed his eyes, trying to drive the image out of his mind but it wasn't working. He'd have to explain, apologise and knowing Gene, beg for forgiveness, but not right now. Right now he didn't have the energy to move from his prone position much less go looking for Gene to grovel at his feet. Because he knew that's what he'd have to do. That and maybe hand over a bottle of that Scotch that Gene had been not so subtly hinting for the other day.

He was scrunched up in his bed, eyes squeezed shut and trying to capture the elusive prize of sleep when someone knocked on his door. Or more like, someone banged on his door. He turned tired eyes to the shaking frame and decided to ignore it. It was most probably Gene wanting to exact his vengeance for the earlier debacle and Sam was in no mood to deal with him.

What he'd forgotten though was that Gene Hunt didn't like being ignored. So the banging escalated into thumps before the whole door shook as a heavy weight was thrown against it.

Sam hid under his pillow and wished it all away.

A second heavy thud and the door flew open, the large form of Gene Hunt ploughing into the darkened room immediately after.

Sam just smashed the pillow harder over his head and pretended he was asleep, all the while wishing it was the truth.

Gene took one look at the huddled form on the bed, pursed his lips and turned to eye the door; which was miraculously still hanging on to the frame even after the abuse it had been put through. He made to slam it shut but then appeared to think twice about this and gently closed it instead.

Sam twitched at the sound of the door closing but otherwise didn't move. Maybe if he didn't move Gene would leave.

Removing off his coat and laying it carefully on the chair, Gene moved into the small kitchen and tossed the bag that he was carrying onto the tabletop, where it landed with a clatter on a pile of dirty plates. Looking around, Gene noted that Sam's kitchen wasn't exactly in it's usual spotless state. If anything, it seemed to be a reflection of it's owner; used dishes, pots and pans piled high in the sink and the counter top covered in bits and pieces of the strange things that Sam ate.

Nose wrinkling, he checked the cupboards and quickly realised that _all_ of Sam's pots and pans were sitting unwashed in the sink.

Huffing in irritation, Gene shot a disgusted look at the huddled form in the bed, before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He was a man on a mission and nothing was going to get in his way, definitely not a few dirty dishes. But oh, Sammy-boy was going to owe him for this. The Gene Genie didn't wash dishes for just anyone.

In the other room, Sam continued to hide under his blankets and pillow. However tempted he was to demand what the fuck Gene thought he was doing, Sam was just too exhausted. Right then he honestly wouldn't have given a flying fuck if the building exploded. He'd probably welcome it since at least then he'd have oblivion in return. Instead he kept the pillow clamped tightly over his head and tried not to listen to the clattering sounds coming from his kitchen.

**

Sam was mentally counting sheep in a half-arsed attempt at courting sleep when the pillow was ripped off his head. Wincing as the abrupt movement aggravated his already throbbing head, Sam valiantly tried to ignore Gene and made to pull the blanket over himself with a muffled "go 'way and lemme die in peace," but a large hand got in the way.

A gruff, "here," and a steaming mug was shoved directly in front of his face making his eyes cross trying to keep it in focus.

Blearily he looked up at Gene, "What is it?"

"Drink it and find out."

When the sceptical look on Sam's face didn't fade, Gene sighed and ground out, "It'll help."

"I don't really want to have any booze right now, Gene."

Another exasperated sigh, "Christ, Tyler. Stop arguing for once and just do as I say. Don't make me regret doing this."

In the end, curiosity won out and Sam reluctantly wriggled into a sitting position before taking the mug from Gene's hands. It was comfortably warm and a cautious sniff was rewarded with a delicious smell; although thanks to the befuddled state Sam was in he couldn't immediately pinpoint what the smell was.

He took a careful sip as he absently moved over to make room for Gene who was plonking himself down beside him.

As the drink filled his mouth and the taste hit his tongue, he blinked in surprise. Hot chocolate. Very delicious hot chocolate that had the perfect touch of sweet and spicy. He took another sip and nearly sighed at the pleasure he felt as the drink slipped smoothly down his throat and warmed his stomach.

"Like it then?"

"Mmmm... 's wonderful."

"Me Mum used to make it for me when I had trouble sleeping." Gene shrugged nonchalantly. "Thought it might help you."

Sam paused with the mug partway to his mouth and looked at Gene, surprise clear on his face.

"How'd you know I wasn't sleeping?"

"'S not hard to miss, Sam. You look like something I scraped off me loafers and you've been slacking right off at work." He tapped Sam's forehead. "The cogs are turning but not as fast as usual. And you've not been half the picky pain-in-the-arse I've grown used to."

This earned him a small, albeit tired smile. Gene's own mouth quirked in response as he shifted into a more comfortable position which was hard considering that the bed was a single and there was two of them. He frowned in annoyance as Sam watched him from behind the mug.

"Here. Budge over a bit," Sam said as he wriggled around a bit more to position them so that Gene was leaning against the headboard with Sam resting against his shoulder and one of Gene's arms around him.

"Better?" Tired brown eyes looked guilelessly up at Gene.

Gene just glared in response but privately he admitted that it was better. Sam was a warm solid weight next to him and he'd never felt more comfortable. Unthinkingly, he brought his free hand up to pat down some of Sam's short hair that was standing up. When he realised what he was doing, he froze mid-pat but when Sam didn't protest or move to acknowledge his actions, he continued. Neither man said a word when Sam tilted his head slightly into Gene's hand.

With his hand now slowly combing through Sam's hair, Gene watched as Sam took another sip from his mug. And continued watching the long throat moving as Sam swallowed and let his eyes linger on the wet gleam of Sam's lips. Gradually Gene relaxed, the calmness of the moment relaxing him.

And then Sam had to open his mouth and spoil the quiet.

"Gene... about what happened today... "

Gene's hand stilled and fell away from Sam's head. "Shut it, Tyler. Finish yer drink and get some kip. You'll be no use to me until you get some rest."

Sam rolled his eyes in response then winced when his still throbbing head protested the small movement. He had to admit though that the pain was fading somewhat. It wasn't just the hot chocolate, although that was helping, it was also the heat emanating from the large body next to him and seeping into his bones and lulling him into the most relaxed state he'd been in since he could remember.

"Tell me a story?"

"I'm sorry, but do I look like your mum, you berk?"

"No," Sam grinned wryly, "I'm pretty sure you could never be mistaken for my mum. But, come one, Gene. One story. Please? It'll help me sleep." He looked pleadingly at Gene with the most pathetic face he could pull. He could hear a little voice screaming in his head that he was behaving worse than a child but Sam ruthlessly ignored it. Gene appeared to be in a good mood and Sam was going to milk it for all it was worth.

Gene rolled his eyes at the display. "You're pushing your luck, Tyler, " he warned but his lips were twitching at the corners.

Sam saw that and pushed his advantage, peering guilelessly at Gene from beneath lowered lashes. "Pretty please?"

"That's right disgusting, that is," Gene said as he gave Sam a disgusted look. "Oh, all bloody right, you big girl's blouse. Just stop doing that thing with your eyes. It's not proper a grown man like you pulling faces like that."

Sam just grinned and snuggled into Gene's body. His movement got another glare but no comment.

Clearing his throat, Gene opened his mouth only to close it again. A rather confused expression crossed his face.

"Er, so, how am I supposed to start?"

"Haven't you ever told anyone a story before?"

Gene directed an annoyed glare at the top of Sam's head and resisted the urge to give it a hard smack. "'S not like I've got any kids of me own. And no, contrary to what you might think, Ray and Chris do not qualify."

A quiet snicker was his only response before Sam spoke again, voice slightly muffled by the mug he was holding to his mouth.

"Most bedtime stories usually start with 'Once upon a time'. But anything works. Just be natural... but the story has to be happy. And interesting. And you have to do the voices too," Sam said, unable to stop grinning when he glanced up and caught the look on Gene's face.

"Bloody hell, Tyler. Any other requirements then? No! Don't you bloody answer that, you div. And wipe that pathetic look off your face or I'll do it for you. It's only because you look like something the dog sicked up that you're getting away with this. Wanker," Gene muttered.

Sam easily ignored the grumbles and looked at Gene expectantly. "Well?"

"Hold your horses, Gladys. Give a man a chance to think. Hmm... well... once upon a time, there was this boy. He was a magnificent looking lad, strong, clever and right popular with the ladies. This absolutely gorgeous lad lived in this city. A big and dirty city, filled with scum and bastards who were up to no good, but he loved it and- "

Sam lost himself in the comforting sound of Gene's voice as he wove a long tale of a young man who grew up and became the sheriff of his city. He felt his eyelids growing heavier, the combination of the hot chocolate and Gene's warm reassuring presence slowly working their magic.

Gene was quite enjoying himself when he felt the body next to him growing suddenly heavier and he stopped mid-word and looked down. Sam's eyes were shut, his lashes casting shadows on thin cheeks. He was snuggled into Gene's shoulder, face smoothed out and looking more peaceful than Gene had seen for a while. Looking at his soundly sleeping DI, Gene let out a sigh. Thank god his Mum's hot chocolate was strong enough to mask the bitter taste of his Missus' crushed sleeping pills.

But then, considering how totally knackered his usually alert DI was, Gene doubted Sam would have realised if the pills had been mashed up under his very nose.

Carefully, he removed the half empty mug from Sam's loose grasp and reaching to the side, blindly placed it on the floor beside the bed before he tried to slide out from under the sleeping man without waking him up.

A few aborted attempts at carefully moving away from Sam later and Gene let out an annoyed grunt before simply tipping the sleeping man off him and sliding off the bed. As he was rolled off, Sam let out a low moan and a few mumbled words before he settled back to sleep, sprawled over the bed.

Pleased at his success, Gene picked up his coat and started riffling the pockets for his cigarettes but then stopped when he remembered how much Sam hated the smoke. A pained look on his face and muttering under his breath, he fished his flask out and took a long drink from it. Tyler definitely owed him for this sacrifice.

Watching the bed, Gene let out a low laugh when Sam started to snore. He contemplated the scene for a few more minutes before reaching over and rearranging Sam into a more comfortable looking position and pulling the blanket over him. Sam never moved the whole time.

Grabbing his coat, Gene gave one last look at the sleeping man before he turned the light off and left the room, ensuring that the door locked behind him. Hopefully tomorrow he'd have his annoying picky-pain-in-his-arse DI back.

-Fin-

 

 


End file.
